


I Will Hold You Closer

by hannasaurus_rex



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Drug Use, Fluff, I ADDED ZIAM, I don't know what I'm doing, Perhaps Some Smut, SORRY ZIALL SHIPPERS, enjoy, lots of fluff, who knows - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-11
Updated: 2014-03-11
Packaged: 2018-01-15 08:20:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1297993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannasaurus_rex/pseuds/hannasaurus_rex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is like a drug to Louis. As soon as he touches those unruly curls and witnesses that grin that seems to take over the boy's face and moulds dimples into his cheeks, he knows what he wants. He wants to touch more, to explore every expression Harry is capable of portraying on that pretty, pretty face, and to indulge in each deep, lazy syllable that falls from his lips. And in a way, he's lucky. Harry is Louis' drug, but the real addiction is the one that empties pill bottles and leaves track marks on Harry's skin. What Louis really wants, is to take it all away.</p><p>***</p><p>Or the one where Harry has a drug problem and Louis is insecure about his masculinity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Will Hold You Closer

Louis wakes in the morning with cold toes and the desire to pull the covers over his head and hibernate for twelve weeks or until someone brings him a gourmet breakfast. No food is brought, as expected, so he settles for a bowl of Frosted Flakes in the kitchen wrapped in a quilt. After a hot shower and a bit of touching up that may or may not include the mascara hidden beneath his shaving kit, he heads out the door. It's raining outside, and, really, what else is new, England? Louis silently thanks the heavens and also his roommate for the stolen-- _borrowed without permission_ \--umbrella in his hands. His polka-dot one is at home by the door, and has been there ever since his neighbour told him her niece had the same one. And of course he couldn't use his after that. Men didn't have matching umbrellas with children, even if it was the prettiest umbrella in the world, probably. He supposes it doesn't really matter, since the weather decides to go for the horizontal attack so that by the time he arrives at work his teeth are chattering and he is unpleasantly soggy.

Louis is a drama teacher. He might just be more proud of that than anything else he's done in his life. But, you know. He's not one to brag. _Really._ He's not. His job isn't all that glamorous anyway. He teaches teenagers how to pull scenarios out of their ass on the spot--or improvisation, as it's called by the pretentious and also the school board. But Louis loves teaching, he does. And that's no different today. Though, the skies seem to have an affect on him this particular instance. Firstly, he just really hates the colour grey--it's painfully boring, and he likes to think that if clouds were a colour like aurora pink everyone would be a little more cheerful--and he's also not a fan of having his hair personally victimized by the wind the minute he steps outside. Both factors are prevalent to his current mood. Which is... a _mood_ if there ever was one. His feet drag half-heartedly as he roams the wooden platform on which he stands to teach--partly there because it acts as a sort of stage, partly because it makes him look, dare he say it, a bit taller--and he is constantly having to repeat himself because his students didn't hear.

A lot of things can be said of Louis, but mild isn't one of them.

He's kind of infamous for his animated teaching that often has bordering classes asking him to turn down his antics a few notches. Whenever this occurs, Louis furrows his brows in an affronted manner, although he really finds it quite amusing, and tells them to stop being so _dramatic_ , because he thinks that's quite funny. He's positive the teachers of those classes are basking in the quiet of his peculiar state today. And he quite honestly hates the idea of that dinosaur Mr. White thinking victory is his. It's not. Louis fully intends to make a comeback tomorrow. But that's just it. Tomorrow. He needs a bit of sleep before then, that's all. Sleep and some Yorkshire tea.

He's definitely a bit off. He decides this as he flicks the butt of his sixth cigarette that day into a puddle beside his car. He's trying to quit, truly. He even wrote his goals down on an old day planner last month and stuck it to the fridge, so you could say things were getting pretty serious. He managed the diminution of two-a-day for the past week. Yet, here he is, with the dry taste of smoke on his tongue. But what can he say? Today is just one of those days where the space between his fingers is where a poison filled stick fits perfectly.

He closes his umbrella, scrunching his nose as droplets of water leap into his hair, and gets into his car. It's a second hand Toyota, but Louis thinks it's damn cool. As the car starts, so does the radio, blaring a Distillers song that has Louis cranking the volume and pulling out of the parking lot with his windows rolled down. He's not sure if it's acceptable for teachers to make such a lurid exit, but he hasn't been reprimanded for it as of yet, so why not?

His route home takes him down a eerily quiet sideroad, because he really can't be bothered with traffic. It's convenient, but some days, like today, Louis' not quite sure it's worth it. He doesn't get the willies often--okay, maybe he does every time he sees a spider or when he's home alone, but that's besides the point. This road is spooky. It's not that he's scared, per se. Wary maybe. _Concerned_ , in the manliest, bravest sense.

The rain has slowed, but now there is fog rolling from the ditches and seeming to swallow his car whole. His headlights do little to break through it. Louis thinks that he might be in a horror movie, and is simply unaware. Soon, his car is going to break down and a crazed axe-murderer will chase him down the street, or zombies will materialize from the fog and bang at his windows until they get the meal they ordered. The plastic seam of the steering wheel presses patterns into his palms as his knuckles turn white and he leans forward in his seat. His imagination is beginning to get the best of him, he knows. Maybe, he is a bit scared now. _Maybe._ But he doesn't think anyone can really blame him. He's played enough Dead Island to know that zombies don't fuck around. His eyes narrow in an attempt to locate his turn, or a road sign--or a member of the undead--or anything for that matter. He can hardly see anything spare from the dotted line on the street, which flashes yellow, yellow, yellow... Then stops, as if something's blocking it, and then its repetition returns.

Louis freezes, because there's only one explanation. There's something on the road, and half of it happens to be right in the path of his vehicle. It's large, not incredibly so, but definitely no fox or rabbit either. The thing is, it's also  _moving._ And Louis' first thought is _S_ _weet baby Jesus, it's a zombie. I'm dead. I'm going to die._

One moment he's freaking out inside because  _it's the apocalypse_ and the next his foot is pressing hard on the brake pedal and he's bracing himself against the steering wheel. He counts the seconds it takes the car to stop. _1... 2... 3... 4..._

He isn't sure when he closed his eyes in all this, but they remain squeezed shut long after the car stills. He supposes he should open them. He doesn't. He also supposes he should do something other than sitting in his car with his hands still holding the steering wheel in a death grip. He doesn't think he can. The gentle vibrations of the car's engine fill the silence that would otherwise be daunting. And Louis just listens for a while, as if it were the most soothing ballad. A small sob escapes his lips and the realization hits him like a wall, or a brick, or a _car._ He almost _killed_ someone. He is no longer scared--his previous fears were a bit silly, now that he thinks about it. He didn't  _actually_ do any harm, except he thinks he hit his elbow. But it was a close enough call to subject him to all the  _w_ _hat if's_ that his mind can conjure up, and it's unspeakable.

He shivers uneasily and decides that he might be a terrible person if he doesn't go and check on the poor soul outside. So he does. He breathes in through his nose once, then out through his mouth, like they did in that yoga video he watched once because the instructor had a cute butt. Unclipping his seat belt, he slips out of the car and into the cool, humid air, the fog churning about him and caressing his skin with clammy fingers. He takes the first step toward the front of the car hesitantly, because this is how people get murdered, he thinks. But then he sees the figure lying on the asphalt and all sensibility leaves him; that is, the little he had to begin with. He scrambles over and drops to his knees beside the stranger, trying to take in what exactly he's looking at.

It's a young man, he realizes, perhaps a bit younger than Louis himself. He's naked, and he's on his knees, arms stretched forward as if he's crawling. Despite the seriousness of the situation, the first though that comes to Louis' mind is  _draw_ _me like one of your French girls_ and he laughs silently to himself. Because he's hilarious, that's why. And he definitely has not seen the Titanic forty-two times. 

The boy's stance wavers, and Louis places a hand on his back in an attempt to steady him as well as make him aware of his presence. His skin is cold under Louis' touch.

The boy slowly turns his head to look at him, wet hair sticking to his forehead, and his face is... _wow_. Louis kind of wants to touch it, because he's sure it's too pretty to be true. Perhaps he's dreaming, and he's going to wake up soon and it will be Monday morning all over again. He hopes that's not the case.

The longer Beautiful Stranger stares, the more he gradually leans to one side until he drops onto his shoulder on the pavement. It doesn't seem to phase him in the slightest. He just continues to study Louis with a distant expression.

"Hey. Hi," Louis whispers, and he feels a bit awkward. He's speaking a bit like he would to a small child, but the mental capacity of his unexpected acquaintance is definitely questionable, so he figures that's the safest bet. He leans forward, taking the boy's face in his hand gently, and _yep_ , he's definitely real. "Are you alright, love? What are you doing on the road? Are you hurt?"

Beautiful Stranger just stares up at him, his eyes wide. In the glow of the headlights, Louis notices that his pupils are dilated, impossibly dark and swallowing almost all the colour in his eyes. His mouth is hanging open, full lips shining with drool as if he didn't have the energy or care to wipe it away.  

"What's your name? Someone must be worried sick about you. Do you know how close I was to..." Louis' voice diminishes because, for one, he's desperately trying not to acknowledge the fact that this poor boy almost found himself under the tires of his car, and two, the boy begins twisting out of his grip. Louis has to cut his sentence short to catch him before he falls face first onto the pavement. He sighs heavily, great contemplation lacing his breath. He just wants to go home, really. He wants to order some pizza and return to the dip in the couch cushions created and claimed by his bum. But he also wants Beautiful Stranger home with him, to make sure he's safe. Just for the night. He decides he doesn't seem like any rapist or murderer he's seen before--he's seen a total of zero, not including the ones on CSI, but you know. Maybe bringing him home isn't such a bad idea.

"I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere," Louis says suddenly.

He jumps to his feet, jogging around to the back of his car. He thinks the command might have been unnecessary, since he isn't sure how far the boy could have gotten anyway, or if he understands anything that Louis is saying, but whatever. He returns a moment later with a blanket folded in his arms. Its reason for being in the trunk of his car has long been forgotten, although he vaguely remembers bringing it camping last March. The blanket is covered in a couple mystery stains and some dried leaves, but it's otherwise warm and should cover a sufficient amount of his odd acquaintance until Louis can get him home.

He sets it onto the ground and the grill of his car breathes fire against his cheek, instigating the sweat which shimmers on his forehead despite the cold. He crouches down on the balls of his feet, rubbing soothing circles into the small of the boy's back.

"I'm gonna take you home. Okay? Is that okay?"

Beautiful Stranger fails to acknowledge Louis. His gaze wanders the skies and the hand that he holds in front of his face, examining it with an expression of dull shock.

As concerned and utterly intrigued as Louis is, he's not known for his patience. He clicks his tongue against his teeth in muted aggravation and eases the anomalous lad into a sitting position. The boy whines--his voice is low and rough and it comes out more like a growl--and presses his hands to Louis' chest to remove himself from his grasp, fisting the fabric of Louis' t-shirt and poking bony knuckles into his ribs.

"No," he wails, and Louis is quite honestly surprised. He had come to the conclusion that the boy either didn't speak English or didn't speak at all. "Nooo."

"I'm not--I'm not going to hurt you," Louis says, struggling to keep the boy in place as he wraps the blanket around his shoulders. Beautiful Stranger begins yelling louder-- _no, no, no_ \--and Louis is kind of worried that someone might hear and get the wrong idea. But he's not about to abandon someone who needs his help. He hugs him closer, the muscles in his arms aching with the effort of holding the mess of flailing limbs. His head knocks back against Louis' jaw, causing him to wince and bury his face firmly into the boy's damp locks. "Shh, listen to me. You're okay. You're gonna come home with me. We're gonna get you nice and warm and find you some clothes. Okay? Nobody's gonna hurt you."

Louis isn't sure if it's his words that still the boy or if he simply tires himself out. Either way, after a moment he feels him relax against his chest with what Louis thinks is a cross sigh. He almost laughs at this. 

From there, he slowly lifts Beautiful Stranger to his feet--a near impossible task since he's dead weight and not exactly small--and leads him to the passenger side of his car. On the way, they lose their balance, and Louis finds himself desperately clutching the side mirror and squeezing at the boy's hip so they don't end up in the ditch. Once his new acquaintance is cuddled beneath the blanket, knees tucked against his chest and seatbelt stretched across his prominent collar bones, Louis returns to his spot behind the wheel. The drive home is painfully awkward. It's approximately 15 minutes--but who's counting?--until Louis is pulling into the parking lot of his apartment building and he feels a little more sure of his decision.

"Honey, I'm home," he calls as he steps into the apartment. He can hear the tv playing a rerun of Family Guy--he knows practically every episode to a tee--and the air is filled with the familiar aroma of incense and microwave popcorn. "We have a... guest."

His roommate and also best friend, Zayn, comes sauntering out of the living room, shoving a handful of popcorn into his mouth and wiping his palms on his grey sweatpants.

"A special guest?" he inquires when he's finished chewing, quirking an eyebrow at Louis, who scowls none too harshly in return.

Louis knows exactly what he's implying because he does so every time Louis brings a friend--female or male--to the flat. It's kind of an ongoing dispute between the two lads. Zayn insists that Louis needs to start seeing people; or, as he puts it,  _you need to get laid, mate._ Louis, on the other hand, is perfectly happy being single; or, in his words,  _how would my hand take the news?_ In all honesty, sometimes he thought it would be nice, the kissing, the dinner dates, the _sex_. But he would never say so, especially not to Zayn. He always sticks with the same line: that he doesn't see the appeal in it all. But he actually really does, it just isn't where he wants it to be. It's... complicated. He's tried to notice the many wonders of the female sex--tits, vaginas, the things manly men like, he figures--but his mind always seems to wander to muscular arms, toned chests, and bums that fit nicely in jeans and boxer shorts. What's worse, his eyes often follow suit. And it isn't that he really minds that part of it all that much, anyway. It's the fact that people already _know_ that he's gay even if he doesn't say so. As if he radiates some sort of aura made up of glitter and dildos. As if he couldn't be more obvious if he tattooed _I <3 Penis_ on his forehead. It might sound kind of dumb, but he wants there to be _some_ mystery in his sexuality. And he doesn't think it's fair that people only assume he's gay because he's so feminine. Because he's _not_ feminine. He's a man, with manly interests. And facial hair. And he's _not_ going to date, because then everyone will think that they're right. They are, kind of, but he doesn't want them to  _know_ that.

"He just needs a place to stay for the night," Louis replies defensively, glaring at the raven-haired boy. 

Zayn's eyes shift to study the stranger stood at his roommate's side and his brows furrow disparagingly. Little does he know, Louis isn't planning on giving him any say in this anyway. He wants to tell Zayn that he's not one to judge, standing there in a pair of old sweats with popcorn stuck in his stubble. But when he follows his gaze, there really isn't anything to defend the odd lad with. Beautiful Stranger is, of course, still stark naked, and the blanket that had previously been wrapped around him is now pooled around his feet. Louis returns it to his shoulders gingerly, as if placing the last ornament on a Christmas tree. His eyes are wide as he watches the walls flash various shades of blue and yellow with the events on the tv screen presenting to an empty room, and his mouth is set between a grimace and a pout, although there's nothing really to be so displeased about. Nothing about Beautiful Stranger is clean nor tidy. His hair is matted, mud is painted generously on his skin, and blood is crusted on his knees, hands, and a split in his lip.

"Mate, he's high as a kite," Zayn concludes, unsure whether the situation is humorous or downright unnerving. "Where'd you find this guy?"

Louis laughs nervously. "It's funny really..."

"Do tell," Zayn says.

"I almost hit him with my car," Louis admits, visibly cringing as the words come tumbling hurriedly from his mouth. He still feels bad about the whole thing. "Sounds much worse than it really was. Just gave me a good scare is all."

Zayn laughs at this, a short cadence that has his eyes crinkling at the corners and his eyebrows raising because of just how  _ridiculous_ the whole situation is. This is followed by a long moment of silence. If it's at all awkward, Louis' pensive demeanor doesn't permit him to notice nor care. He studies Zayn, then Beautiful Stranger, then Zayn again, biting his lip.

"Do you think it'd be weird if I bathed him?" he asks finally, emphasizing the word  _bathed_ as if the whole sentence weren't enough to catch his friend's attention. He reaches over and wipes at a patch of drying mud on the boy's arm thoughtfully. 

"Jesus.  _Yes,_ I think it would be weird if you bathed him," Zayn replies, turning into the kitchen and pulling open the fridge to scan its contents. "But you're gonna do it anyway."

Louis gives his him an embellished shrug as if saying  _What can you do?_ He flutters his hand at his side for a moment until it finds purchase on the Beautiful Stranger's wrist. He then proceeds to slip off his shoes and pad across the floor, coaxing him down the hall towards the bathroom. The blanket slips down the boy's back once again and Louis can't help but notice how broad and muscular his shoulders are. Louis also notices that his pale skin is littered with tattoos. He thinks that perhaps he'd like to hear the stories behind them someday.

"Play safe," Zayn calls, only moderately in jest.

Louis rolls his eyes. "Yes mum."

They stumble into the small bathroom, tripping over one another because Beautiful Stranger can't seem to keep track of his feet. Louis fills the tub with water and helps the boy up from where he's situated on the toilet lid. The filthy boy clumsily lowers himself into the water, sinking up to his chin and glancing up at Louis as if searching for some sort of approval. Louis smiles awkwardly at him, and it suddenly occurs to him that he's bathing a boy nearly his age. He hesitates, because maybe this is weird after all. But then he notices the boy's mouth moving slightly and hears him muttering unintelligibly to himself. And, well, the guy's pretty fucked up. It can't hurt to clean him up a bit.

Louis takes a bar of soap from the edge of the tub and finds that he's not really sure how to begin. He starts by slowly leaning forward and washing the mud from Beautiful Stranger's neck and along the crest of his collar bones, which, he has to say, are quite lovely. The boy closes his eyes and leans his head back, sighing deeply through his nose. Louis takes that as permission to continue. He washes from every inch of pretty bare skin and finds a ship, a heart, and other seemingly random images on his arms, a large butterfly tattooed on his chest. He finds many other things, too. Little, cute things like extra nipples and beauty marks. Beautiful Stranger leans into his touch as Louis washes his hair, and he laughs a little, surprised by his sudden resemblance to a lost puppy. His hand is pushed away when he tries to wipe the blood from the boy's lip, and Louis relents, deciding that that is the least of his worries, and his work is done.

Beautiful Stranger follows Louis to his bedroom with a towel draped over his head because Louis couldn't get him to stop brushing it off his shoulders. Louis thinks it looks absolutely adorable. It's only when Louis finds himself standing in the midst of the sundry disaster that is his room--with heaps of clothes scattered everywhere yet nothing quite apropos--that it occurs to him that the boy intently clenching and unclenching his hands against the brand new comforter on the bed is at least a size larger than himself. Louis rummages through the clothes strewn across the floor, hung in the closet, and pouring from drawers, to no avail. Feeling a bit defeated, he resorts to grabbing a pair a black boxers that are a bit big on him. He doesn't know if they'll be much better, but at least Beautiful Stranger in all his glory will be _contained_.He's finding it hard not to notice that the lad is no small miracle, if he's being proper about it.

It turns out, the boxers are really not much better. They fit snugly against the boy's pale thighs, bum, and other bits, and Louis just groans because now that he's noticed he really can't _un_ notice.

The rest of the evening is spent in a casual manner. Louis prepares tea, as he would for any guest in his home, because tea's kind of his thing. He finds he's too lazy for even pizza, so he decides to heat some soup. They eat in near silence, aside from Zayn's music pounding faintly through the walls. Louis learns that Beautiful Stranger is a loud eater, the kind that insist on being vocal about just how much they're enjoying their meal. He wonders what else he's vocal about. Intermittently, Louis inquires into his identity, but the boy, considerably more coherent but still a bit distant, only answers with grunts and borderline distraught  _I don't know_ 's. Occasionally he mumbles something about  _hairy styles,_ which causes Louis to frown, regaled and mystified and left wondering what in the  _hell_ he's on about.

Louis leaves the dishes on the table and they migrate to the living room. He sits down and Beautiful Stranger follows suit, curling up so that his cheek is pressed against Louis' chest and their legs are tangled together. Louis is kind of startled by such a forward gesture, but he relaxes when he feels strong arms wrap around his waist.  He shifts himself until he's leaning against the arm of the couch, and lets his fingers wander to the boy's soft hair. Cuddling wasn't really part of the plan, but how can he resist? Beautiful Stranger is so warm and Louis can feel the boy's fingers brush his skin every so often as he toys absently with the hem of his shirt. It sends chills racing across his skin. Britain's Next Top Model plays quietly on the tv--if it's one of Louis' favourite shows, that's his business--and a newly lit stick of incense burns and sends smoke eddying above their heads. Louis also doesn't plan on falling asleep like that, but with the heat of another body pressed against his and arms wrapped so securely around his waist, it's really the only option. He finds he's at a loss for how he's ever gone to sleep without it.


End file.
